Old Wounds Open
by Eerie
Summary: A warm evening walk home goes horribly wrong, and neither Bart nor his old adversary will get away unscarred. Old traumas never vanish with the passing of years, but they can sometimes change their shape in unexpected, fearsome ways.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Warnings apply for violence, abuse, and general unpleasantness for those who need them. Rating might be bumped for later chapters.

* * *

 **Old Wounds Open**

The highway's soft hum merged with the evening's first crickets into a pleasant white noise, the only sound filtering over the heavily tree-lined street as night's proper darkness began to fall. Gradual blackness swallowed the amber sunset's last lingering rays as dull stars crowded into their place. September's first full moon shone as gold and round on the skyline as the hunting cat's watchful eye, rising slowly for a better look across the city. Even for a Saturday night, Springfield was sleepy and quiet beneath its glow. Only the sudden rattle of chain-link fencing and a grunt as sneakered feet smacked down onto concrete disturbed the lull.

"Come on, Milhouse, don't be such a wuss," came a jeer immediately after. "It's not even that high!"

The addressed, standing on the opposite side of the fence that surrounded the municipal swimming pool, eyed the narrow top of that barrier with a downturned mouth and a tightened grip on the strap of his paperboy's messenger bag.

"Actually, I'm not sure this was such a good idea after all, Bart."

Bart gave his friend an exaggerated eye roll in the dim sulfurous light cast from a nearby street lamp and curled his fingers through the fencing as he leaned in close to speak. "But it was _your_ idea. You can't chicken out on your own ideas. Plus the whole town's dead tonight. How many people did we see on the way over here? One? Two? It's not like we'll be spotted with all these trees around anyway, and even if someone comes along I doubt they're gonna give a rat's ass. We can just hide underwater for a while."

"Well..." Milhouse continued to appraise the fence after a quick look around.

Bart shoved himself away from the fence and waved a dismissive hand as he turned. "I'm heading in. Night's not gonna stay young forever."

Yanking off his t-shirt, Bart walked toward the water's edge. He paused to toss it to the ground and work at the fastenings of his shorts. Once those were pried open and kicked off into his shirt's general direction, he bent and made quick work of his shoes and socks. The soft thud of Milhouse's bag, stuffed with their towels, against the concrete behind him made Bart smirk. Timid as Milhouse often was, he knew his friend wouldn't ditch him, especially after the word "chicken" got involved.

The fence rattled with Milhouse's weight as Bart dashed forward to execute a crashing cannonball into the water. It wasn't quite cold, but it wasn't warm either, and the plunge shocked his skin not unpleasantly.

Milhouse was crouched and carefully stripping down to his swim trunks too when Bart resurfaced. "We should probably try to be quiet. That splash was pretty loud."

"Come on," Bart groaned and floated on his back. "Don't you ever live a little?"

"I'm here aren't I?" Milhouse grumbled. But as no one was shouting or running toward them, he relaxed a bit. His clothing made it into a neater pile that Bart's had before he toed his way to the water's edge.

Bart laughed as his friend sat on the concrete lip and lowered himself all but silently into the pool. "You baby."

"Shut up!" Milhouse huffed and swung a great gush straight into Bart's face.

"Oh, now you're gonna get it!" Bart mock-spat with a smile as he scrubbed the water from his eyes.

Milhouse clumsily dog-paddled away toward the deep end, laughing as Bart pursued him in a flurry of splashes.

The day had been so hot; yet another in the year's persistent Indian summer. Even despite that, the pool had stuck with strict adherence to its scheduled yearly closure the week before. It was unfair. School would resume term on Monday, but the unseasonable warmth all but screamed for one last hurrah. Bart had congratulated Milhouse heartily for such a perfect breaking-and-entering plan.

Reaching the far end, Milhouse grabbed for the ledge, but the sudden pull of hands on his ankles made him flail wildly. He was swept down and submerged as Bart yanked him under. It was too dark to really see underwater, but Milhouse seized Bart's own ankles as his friend tried to climb and jump up from his shoulders. The result was their both emerging in spluttering breaths between laughs.

Their splashing and assaults went on for some time, neither of them either remembering or caring about their trespass while there was fun to be had. That was until the shrill whine of a siren in the distance made them both momentarily freeze. The peace-splitting sound grew louder, and Milhouse immediately began paddling in a frenzy toward the nearest ladder.

"Let's get out of here!" he cried. "Someone called the cops!"

Bart, though alert, did not follow. The siren was already growing vaguely fainter again.

"False alarm," Bart said. "It's probably headed downtown."

Milhouse had climbed out anyway, dripping and already shivering. He swept up his bag and yanked out a towel before drying his face and hair in hurried, brutal strokes.

"Hey! Earth to Milhouse! It's not coming for us. Come on, what are you doing?"

"We should go. It's getting late anyway and we'll be in a lot more trouble if we're caught out way past curfew."

Unperturbed, Bart kicked up a spray of water that Milhouse unsuccessfully tried to dodge. "We've only been here, what, fifteen minutes? Why waste all our hard-won efforts to even get in here?"

Milhouse, however, was already pulling on his clothes. He hadn't dried himself very well, and the tinge of panic about his movements made the process more difficult as fabric clung stubbornly to damp skin. He ignored the laughter and taunts from his friend.

Taking the second towel out of his bag and throwing it meaningfully on the ground, Milhouse stuffed his own wet one back inside. "Come on, Bart. This was fun and all, but let's _go_."

Bart looked at his towel lying on the ground. It was one of his old Krusty the Clown ones, the first one had blindly grabbed from the hall closet in his rush to get out of the house unspotted to meet up with Milhouse that night. He hadn't realized he had taken that particular one until just then, or that he still even owned the thing. His mom had already donated a large portion of his old toys and childhood effects to the local thrift store at his repeated insistence that, yes, it was okay and he no longer cared.

The night had fallen quiet again; the police car had reached its unknown destination as the siren cut off like a scream suddenly silenced.

Looking at the brightly colored fabric, the realization that this was his last Saturday of freedom fully struck Bart. He'd be starting his dreaded first day of eighth grade at the middle school. It would be the last year he'd have to suffer through that place, but then it would be on to high school. The official end of his childhood.

As he studied the wrinkles distorting Krusty's grinning face, he realized he was running out of time to live it up and get away with this sort of thing with no real repercussions. That would be changing all too soon, and he wouldn't be a kid in any sense anymore.

"No, I think I'll stay a little longer," Bart stated flatly to his increasingly antsy friend. "You go on if you're so scared." He'd loaded the mockery on almost too thickly there.

After a pause, Milhouse said, "Fine. I guess I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He tossed his bag back over the fence to the well-mown lawn on the other side before scrambling up and over himself. Casting an oddly sincere "be careful" over his shoulder, Milhouse arranged his bag across his chest and ran off.

Bart listened to his friend's retreating footsteps pound down the sidewalk and chuckled. For all the kid's paranoia he certainly did not make up for it in stealth. But his smile faded as disappointment crept in.

Treading water, Bart looked around. He listened to the crickets and the faint rustling of the leaves as a soft breeze blew through them. He looked up at the moon, already losing its golden tinge to white as it gradually rose and became smaller in the sky. And he realized then that, despite his firm intentions, being alone was not going to be any fun that night. Stupid Milhouse.

Bart paddled over to the ladder and hoisted himself up. Well, at least his friend was decent enough to have let him his towel before fleeing.

He picked it up and used it to scrub at his limbs. The night had developed a slightly chilly breeze just touching the otherwise still and warm air. He didn't relish the idea of continuing to wear his wet swim trunks under his clothes, so he shimmied out of them, half-hoping there really was no one around this time. He quickly pulled on his dry shorts, their warmth against his bare skin surprisingly pleasant.

After dressing, Bart threaded one end of the towel through a leg of his trunks and tied a knot there to keep them from falling out on his journey back home. Slinging the damp burden behind his neck like a scarf, he made his way back to the fence and the lonely darkness beyond it.

* * *

Bart knew the streets around Springfield well. Though he lived some distance from the pool, he was familiar from past experience with the shortcuts and potential hiding places from any police or other meddling adults. He also knew that the best shortcuts were not exactly in the safest areas for this part of town, and that he didn't tend to reacquaint himself with those places very often past dusk. Springfield seemed all but totally asleep just then, but that didn't mean he wouldn't run into trouble at some point if he wasn't at least somewhat careful.

He paused next to an old elm tree by the sidewalk, looking across the street toward the Springfield Arms apartments and the black vein of an alley that ran beside it. There was usually a stray can of spray paint stashed behind the bins in that alley, it being one of several favorite haunts of some of the other kids who were "artistically inclined" like himself. But the lack of adequate street lighting would make searching out a patch of wall a pointless endeavor just then. It remained a handy shortcut all the same, however.

Bart eyed the area again, seeing no signs of life, and dashed across the road toward the alleyway. A dog barked in the distance as he slid into the almost palpable darkness beside the apartment building.

Above, the windows were mostly dark and curtained, though a few flickered with the lights of televisions. These cast dim, erratic shapes over the opposite wall, the garbage bins, and other assorted lumps and piles that inhabited the dirty, narrow passage. Though the borrowed light helped to guide his way, it did little to aid his view of the ground. His foot connected with something heavy and unyielding with a smack, and Bart instantly lost his balance. He fell, and in his effort to minimize any damage threw out his hands before him and smashed his elbow hard against the corner of the thing that had tripped him.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed as he pulled himself right to his knees and gripped his scraped arm. He reached out clumsily to feel that the mass he had stumbled over was a cinder block. What it was doing smack in the middle of the alley he had no idea, but it made him furious. He supposed he should have been thankful it wasn't his head that had connected with it, but still.

As Bart began to stand, he realized that there was a tall, dark shape in his path several feet ahead that he didn't remember seeing there before. Or had he just not noticed it? Yet when he saw that shape move, and move toward him, Bart no longer cared about anything apart from getting the hell out of there. He managed to stumble over the cinder block again as he took an unsteady step backward and fell on his rear. The crash jolted his injured elbow, and a cry of pain broke from his lips. The unbidden sound was strange to his ears; it didn't echo between the walls but seemed to be eaten by them.

The shadow had paused at this action, but was now continuing to advance. A cloud passed over the moon and made the already dark even more complete. The lights from the windows above cast weird flashes about him and did nothing whatever to quell the rising panic in Bart's body. He more heard rather than saw the figure stop before him, just one scant step away where the curtain of darkness began and the thin pool of light in which he sat ended. Bart had just begun to work out what he could say to the stranger bearing down on him, when a pale hand melted out of the shadows. The palm was upturned, the long fingers relaxed, an obvious gesture offering assistance.

Bart glanced up in a vain attempt to identify its owner, but it was just too dark. The strange man wasn't saying anything, just waiting, and that uneasy silence was all the more frightening. Something icy seemed to block up Bart's throat as he pawed nervously at the towel still miraculously slung in place around his neck. His voice came like a small thing when he managed to find it.

"S-sorry. I...I think I'm okay. I'll just go now." He paused, hating the way his voice sounded when he was afraid. It didn't seem to belong to him at all.

"Nonsense," the man-shaped shadow spoke in a deep yet strangely jovial voice. "You're bleeding."

Bart was too astonished by this information to register the fact that he had recognized that voice. He instinctively raised his injured arm and tried to assess the damage as best he could. The man was right. He had scraped up a sizeable portion of skin, and blood had already begun to stain the hem of his shirt. Though it looked like nothing more than black smears in the wane light. He couldn't tell how bad the wound really was, though, as fear was currently serving as a highly effective painkiller.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" The upturned hand twisted around into a claw.

Before Bart could react, it had seized over his wrist, yanking him up to an unsteady stand so quickly he barely even registered that he was no longer on the ground. His arm was pulled straight in the process, and he definitely felt the pain in his elbow then. He cried out, but a second hand, warm and smelling faintly of some floral soap (why his mind had picked out this detail just then he could hardly imagine) closed down firmly over his mouth to muffle his voice. He was turned around and pulled bodily into the one holding him so that his back collided against the man's torso. His hurt arm was wrenched down behind him and gripped so tightly he vaguely realized the certainty of there being no hope of breaking free from it. All of this took approximately five seconds, but to Bart it felt like time had slowed to a crawl.

"There now. We'll navigate this treacherous alley together so you don't take another spill." The man practically purred into his ear, and Bart could almost hear the smile on those lips even as the realization suddenly dawned on him with intense, terrible clarity.

 _Sideshow Bob._

In his renewed terror, Bart tried to wrench himself away and kick out, even attempt to bite the hand covering his mouth, but he was being too firmly held to have affected any difference in his already vulnerable position. His assailant had a good foot at least of height over him as it was, and had also never had a problem overpowering Bart before.

"Now now, _Bart_ , you'll just make this all the more painful if you struggle like that."

The familiar contempt dripped over his name made Bart's blood go cold. His eyes widened, searching frantically against the dark of the street for any sign of help. But the night remained seemingly deserted. Sweat began to break out on his forehead and under his arms as he felt himself being pulled along deeper into the alley. His heart beat so hard he was certain Bob would be able to feel it through his back. He attempted to struggle again, crying out in vain against the large hand that made it increasingly difficult to breathe.

They rounded a corner and the sound of a door's squeaking hinges made Bart's imagination wild with terror. That he was being dragged into a strange, dark room with a maniac was now an absolute certainty. Then the door closed with the finality of a deadbolt's sliding home and a renewed darkness, thick and unbearably hot, enveloped him. It was so hard to breathe now, Bart could feel his head swimming. Pinholes of phantom light danced through the black before his eyes and his legs nearly gave out from under him. Bart felt himself caught and jostled, shoved down onto something hard, and his head lolled forward as he sucked in a great mouthful of air in the absence of the smothering hand. Before he could right himself, a ripping sound rent the air and the hand was back on him, in his hair, gripping and pulling his head back. Bart had just opened his mouth again to scream when a large piece of duct tape was mashed over his lips. It didn't keep him from trying all the same, and his panicked cries bled like hoarse moans through the tape.

"Oh, that _is_ good, Bart."

His arms were lashed behind him with some sort of thin rope next, and he realized the hard thing he had been pushed onto was a wooden chair.

"It truly is a crime in itself to stopper those wonderful screams in your little throat, but regrettably, under the circumstances, a necessary one. Neighbors don't tend to enjoy the sound as much as I do."

As his ankles were bound to their respective chair legs next, and Bart had had a better chance to catch his breath through his nose, his eyes better adjusted to the gloom. It wasn't dark as pitch after all, but it was still so dim that differentiating colors was difficult. He could still make out the general lay of his environment. A modest floor lamp shone very softly against the ceiling in the far corner of what appeared to be a sparsely furnished living room. Stacks of books were everywhere, piled in front of shelves, as if whoever lived here had only just recently moved in. Something lay out of place on the floor near the door, and Bart realized that his towel had managed to survive the struggle. It sat now in an absurd, wet, wilted heap on Bob's floor, and the sight of it triggered a spontaneous frantic laugh from Bart's throat.

The full realization that he was trapped in Sideshow Bob's apartment hit him and renewed Bart's agony. How could he possibly get out of this situation alive? Out on the street, tucked in the alley, even in his own bedroom it was one thing, but this was Bob's personal territory. A total unknown. Bart knew this posed for him a distinct disadvantage. Where anywhere else there was at least some small hope of rescue, there seemed to be none here. Only Milhouse even knew where he had been that night after they'd snuck off, and Milhouse rarely displayed any genuine worry about his friend. Given Bart's track record for general mischief and frequent impulsive adventures, always successful in the end, it was hard to blame the kid. Bart's lucky rashness was practically rote.

Apparently satisfied with his work, Bob straightened and walked away. Bart attempted to struggle, but found his limbs bound so tightly his hands and feel were already going faintly numb. This was serious; Bob was not taking any chances this time.

Bart was so absorbed with his bonds that he barely registered the clang of metal on metal as a drawer opened and closed. But his futile efforts to loosen the ropes in any way he could stopped when that oppressive presence returned to loom over him. Bart glared up at the man smiling down at him. Glared at that red hair that would have been a dead giveaway to the man's identity at any other time if Bart had only been able to see it. His cut elbow began to throb, too, and tears of pain and frustration pricked the corners of his eyes.

Bob's smile grew as he furnished a large, gleaming kitchen knife from behind his back. He waved it slowly mere inches before Bart's face, watching his captive's wide, terrified eyes follow its path. Then the blade stilled, but didn't pull away, and Bob leaned in so close Bart could feel the man's hair brush his cheek, his breath against his ear when he whispered so softly it could have been almost soothing but for the words that came.

"Don't flinch."

Bart held his breath as Bob pulled back and the knife crept toward his left eye. He could feel himself shaking, but he tried with all his will to quell it. The tears were genuinely about to break cover now as the very tip of the brutal instrument touched down delicately against the outer corner of his eye. The light's reflection caught in its metal surface and Bart had to look away. Anywhere but at the knife or at Bob's rapt face. He trained his line of sight on the door, willing with all his might that someone would come through it now.

The blade slid slowly and gently, barely touching his skin at all, and dragged a tiny stream of his tears into a thin wet line down his cheek all the way to his jawbone. After a pause it continued, just as softly as before, and only stopped at the side of his throat where even now Bart was certain his rapid pulse could be observed through his perspiring skin. The blade tilted just slightly there and began to push. Not enough to cause any pain, but more than enough to instill measureless fear. Increasing, challenging the skin to break under its pressure.

Bart squeezed his eyes shut and the well of tears fell from both eyes then. But at the crucial moment, when he was certain his throat was about to be sliced open, Bob pulled the knife away with a strangely contented sigh. Bart reopened his eyes but could not bring himself to look at the man's face. He didn't want to see there whatever perverse expression of satisfaction this little torture had induced. The tears were humiliation enough.

Bob straightened and idly fingered the tip of the knife. When he spoke his voice was thoughtful.

"You know, Bart, I always did relish being the architect of my various schemes to get you into the position where you now find yourself. All the time I spent planning, preparing, imagining exactly how I would end your life. And yet, though otherwise perfectly ingenious, not one of those plans attained me my prize. To think that all it would take was just sheer dumb luck!"

Bob laughed, and Bart swore he heard the bitterness in it.

"You, practically stumbling blindly into my arms just outside my very door as I returned from an equally oblivious evening stroll. Honestly, how could I have ever planned for such a ridiculous irony?" He laughed again and slapped the width of the blade against his open palm. "But you're here now all the same, aren't you. Truth be told, I was never one for improvisational ad-libbing, but I actually do find the spontaneity of it all quite appealing. Exciting, even."

Bob had wandered during his soliloquy toward the door and seemed to only just notice the foreign lump of fabric forming a vague damp spot on his carpet. He bent and swiped it up with the blade of the knife, examining it as it dangled there. When he saw Bart's trunks he smirked knowingly and turned back to the boy.

"So you weren't just out breaking curfew then, were you? Swimming all alone at night, wandering down dark alleyways. Do you have no head for danger, or simply a death wish, you foolish boy?"

Bob set the knife down on the kitchenette counter behind him and untied the knot holding Bart's trunks to the towel. He let the garment fall unheeded to the floor before retrieving his weapon and wandering back toward his captive.

"But it was considerate of you to bring this," he said and waved his token. "I'd have hated to mop up your blood with one of my good towels."

Bart struggled anew against his restraints, wincing as the rope bit deeper into his wrists and the skin above his ankle socks. He had to do something, try something, anything at all. If only he could speak. He had talked his way out of Bob's murderous designs before. But then, what would he possibly say now? It had been years since his last run-in with his self-professed enemy, and a lot could have changed during that time. There was the chance he could get away with something completely different than what Bob was accustomed to, but whatever that might be, he had to come up with it very soon.

Looking wildly about the room for inspiration, Bart's eyes lighted on the only window in sight: currently shut with the blinds drawn. That would explain the oppressive heat. He glanced at the scattered stacks of books leaning precariously close to toppling. What did Bob read, anyway? For that matter, what did the bastard go to school for before becoming Krusty's sidekick? Maybe Bart could appeal to Bob's intellect rather than his vanity. Coming from Bart, that would definitely throw Bob off. But the better question was whether Bart would even be able to live up to such a job. It was unlikely. Lisa most likely could get away with it, but what the hell did he know about books?

There was the chance of feigning Stockholm Syndrome. But even Bart immediately realized that attempting to take the side of someone hell-bent on nothing more than your painful demise was definitely a fool's errand.

As it was, he had very few resources at his disposal. The only likely shot in view was to play on his environment. Concentrating hard on keeping calm, he inwardly chanted a mantra that he could do this. It was risky and dangerous, but what other choice was there? Then Bart held his breath. When he felt a wave of dizziness, he let it out and began to take in rapid, shallow breaths. He could feel the blood collecting hot behind his cheeks, and knew his face was already going bright red.

Bob had stopped to appraise him, clearly perturbed. "What is it? What's the matter with you?"

Bart rolled his eyes back and continued to breathe erratically.

Unconvinced, Bob stood before him and landed a swift, openhanded slap against Bart's cheek. "Stop that this instant."

Shocked at the sudden blow, Bart's breath really did briefly catch, but he did not abate. His vision began to swim and his head lolled.

"Damn it."

Bob had seized his hair again and pulled his head back before peeling one corner of the tape away from Bart's skin. He paused just short of Bart's lips.

"One single scream," Bob said in a low, almost husky voice barely above a whisper itself. "And this knife will find a cozy new home inside your windpipe." The edge of said weapon had returned to Bart's throat, pushing against it with emphasis.

Bart forced himself to nod in acquiescence, and the tape covering his mouth was suddenly torn away. It seemed in the moment as though half his face had been ripped along with it, but his sweat had helped eased its removal.

"I-I can't breathe...it's too hot...please..." Bart choked out between gasps.

Bart rolled his eyes back again and sensed when Bob moved away. Thinking that he would have gone to open the window, Bart was surprised to hear the snapping of paper and a bag thrust against his mouth a moment later.

"No. Breathe into this," Bob chastised when Bart attempted to turn his head away.

After a few shallow, rapid breaths, Bart let his entire body go limp. He trained his chest to stay still, but could feel his heart continue to hammer with the stress.

"Oh no you don't!" Bob shook Bart by the shoulder, but received no response. Flinging the bag aside, Bob seized the knife from where he had dropped it and began to saw through the ropes binding his quarry.

Bart had to stifle the overwhelming desire to rub his abused limbs in the wake of their sudden freedom. He kept his face and body trained slack, and his eyes rolled back as he slumped bonelessly in the chair, willing Bob to move away. But the next phase of his improvised plan never came.

Bart knew Bob was a smart man. He knew that Bob had to have realized that the lack of circulation in the small, hot apartment was the source of the awkward scene in which they now found themselves. He knew Bob would not want his prey's attention and vulnerability being taken away from him. And he knew that Bob wanted Bart to be there, fully, in all senses, when his life ebbed away under the man's knife.

So when instead of hearing Bob get up to cross the room toward the window so Bart could make a break for the door he felt hands pulling him off the chair and laying him out flat on the floor, Bart nearly honestly did faint. But when he felt Bob's hands tilt his head back, mouth actually descending over his, Bart's eyes flew open in pure shock. His breath honestly did catch in his lungs, but the subsequent push of air from that mouth filling them in his stead stunned him cold. Luckily, something deep and still alert in his mind recognized the fact that Bob was straightening, and he slammed his eyes shut again.

Bob had placed a pair of fingers on Bart's throat, checking his pulse, before listening for any signs of breathing.

"Come on..." he muttered and descended to fit his mouth over Bart's again.

He was running out of time, yet Bart suddenly knew with a deep inward shudder what he had to do. He cracked his eyes open and scanned the floor as best he could for signs of the knife. He caught the glint of the polished steel resting just beyond Bob's currently kneeling leg. If he could just slowly reach out and take it without being seen...

Fighting against coughing up the air being forced into his lungs, Bart sensed that Bob was about to pull away again. A small moan slipped from his throat and, even despite his own immeasurable horror at the very idea of what he was about to do, he blindly threw himself into it. Still feigning semi-consciousness, Bart's tongue edged forward until it met its intended obstacle.

He had kissed girls before. It was usually not even openmouthed, except for that one Terri Mackleberry incident, though it had been kind of nice in its own awkward sort of way. But this was so far beyond that sort of awkward he could barely even comprehend it. Still, as his very life managed to depend on this insane moment, Bart almost wished he had had more experience.

As Bart continued to brush his tongue against his enemy's, moving his lips in the remembered motions of the kiss he had shared with Terri, he felt the man's entire freeze completely, unreactive. He couldn't help faintly wondering if he was doing this right. And then the sour tide of shame at stooping to this level, even for what it was worth, washed over him. Bart opened his eyes and reached out for the knife, nearly nicking his fingers on the blade, then grabbing the handle in increasingly frantic fingers.

Bob had quickly realized what Bart was doing and pulled himself away, but the sheer confusion written on his face remained, and his reaction speed faltered. He'd already lost the opportunity to retake control of the situation as Bart scrambled up and shoved himself back and away into a kneeling position, brandishing the knife.

"Stay there. Don't come near me," Bart warned, voice shaking as much as his hands. "I-I'll do it!"

Bob watched this unexpected turn of events for a moment with wide eyes before his features softened into a relaxed, amused smile. Continuing to sit where he was on the floor, he lifted his hands slowly to illustrate that he was no threat.

"Well well, clever boy. You wouldn't, though, would you?"

Bart hefted himself up, not caring if it inflamed his injuries, and kept the point of the wicked knife trained at the man on the floor.

"Don't move. And don't try to stop me." Bart began to make a wide, careful arc around Bob as he progressed toward the door.

"Oh, I don't believe I'll have to." Bob chuckled and lowered his arms into a shrug. "You'll stop yourself." He began to rise to his feet.

Bart stopped in alarm and gripped the knife in both hands. "I said don't move!" he nearly shouted, and the knife wavered in his hands.

"Don't kid yourself. I'll grant that you've managed to surprise me just now, in more ways than one, but I still know you better than you think, Bart. And you don't have it in you. Not that."

Bart continued to hold the knife so fiercely his knuckles began to whiten. He voice shook and his skin was sweating terribly now.

"Stop! Please...I'm warning you..."

Bob gently shook his head in the manner of a patient but long-suffering father. "All you have to do is put that knife down. Put it down, and I'll make this whole thing quick and painless. I promise. You won't suffer."

He took a small step toward Bart, who took one back.

"I'll give you five seconds, Bart. And if you don't drop the knife within that time, well, I can assure you things will get much, _much_ worse for you tonight." Despite the threat, his tone remained calm with the semblance of compassion.

Another step. Bart tried to take another backward, but the kitchen counter was already at his back. There was nowhere to run.

"Five...four..." Bob took another careful step. "Three...two...I suggest you make the wise decision while you still can..."

As Bob's foot lifted to take another step toward him, something in Bart's mind seemed to click off and on again. A strange, indefinable certainty consumed him. Before he knew it, he'd bared his teeth and suddenly lunged forward to close the already short distance between them. He hadn't thrust his arms out at all, just relied on his entire body's momentum and the sudden drive that had overwhelmed him. And then time slowed, details came in such sharp relief he could swear the room's single light had swelled to erupt its glow like a light bulb about to blow. Colors emerged. But all sounds blurred into one. It was wet and thick. The sound of flesh opening up for the path of something heavy and so very sharp.

Bart's knuckles seemed to pop open as if an electric jolt had shocked his arms. He took a step back, then another. He looked down at his hands and saw the glaring wash of red there. Gloving his hands, slashed up his arms like paint amateurishly sprayed over a pristine patch of wall. Wet, hot. It was that sensation that managed to bring him back to himself to one degree or another.

Eyes going wide and wild, Bart felt his balance sway as he caught sight of the large wooden handle and just the barest inch or two of its sister steel beyond it, gripped in Bob's equally red hands. The remainder of the blade lodged in the man's abdomen. And Bob was just barely holding the handle of that knife so loosely, not pulling, staggering, staring at Bart with disbelief so intense Bart almost rushed forward to help him. And then Bob was on the floor and Bart was screaming. Fumbling with the deadbolt with slick, sticky fingers until the door was open and his legs were on autopilot. The sounds coming from his throat foreign to his own ears. The night air so cold and fresh and open and alien after the years he had surely spent in the hell of that room.

Several lights of the windows above him flicked on and curtains swished back as featureless faces peered down at the commotion. Bart ran in what he could only hope was his house's direction. He might have been running for several miles or only several feet, the smack of his sneakers against the concrete and the blood pounding in his ears the only sounds carrying him through the void. Then he was suddenly curled up against a wall on the hard ground, crying like he hadn't cried since he was too young and too small to help it.

He'd barely registered the lights, the voices, the gentle hands touching him. He recoiled by reflex, but when a strong pair of arms slipped beneath his knees and back to lift him, his tortured consciousness finally relented and slipped away.


	2. Chapter 2

_The sun's glare against the glittering snow blanketing the entire city casts its unwelcome white light through the high windows. The thin layer of dust on the nearest narrow windowsill catches it; he thinks this room has not been properly cleaned in some time. The lazy beats of a bloated blue bottle fly thumping against the damp glass steadily increase in volume from soft to strangely loud. The room is far too warm with the sunshine and the heater and the seats filled with respiring bodies. The buzzing, the thuds, the droning voices._

 _And then from the edge of his perception he hears his name called out as he is summoned. The room goes quiet in anticipation. He has been expecting this, has been prepared by the others for weeks prior to this moment, but he cannot look away from that shiny black and blue creature flinging itself ineffectually into its efforts. The thing will probably die here; its last moments spent gazing with confusion at the outside world so close, so clear, but never attained again. The fly pauses on the dirty sill to rest, turns toward him, and seems to regard him._

"...Simpson?"

 _Blinking his eyes to clear the familiar fog that has taken up residence in his head too often these days, he finally faces the front of the room and stands. His chair scrapes unpleasantly against the worn wooden floor as he makes his way forward._

 _He has rehearsed this countless times. It is practically just another drill. Just go through the motions. Say his lines. Be sincere. And above all, try not to look at_ him _._

 _But the sunlight at full pelt against red has an effect not unlike a freshly stoked fire. Wherever else you look, you will still constantly see it from the corner of your eye. He glances at the crowd, pausing briefly on the concerned faces of his parents, moves over the finely dressed jury, then opts again for the blinding white world outside as he sits at his new position at the head of the room._

 _The prosecutor's acid voice, clearly uncaring that its target is still a minor, grates his nerves, but he does his best to keep his anger checked. His delinquent track record is rattled off; he suddenly has to fight to keep from grinning. He wants to tell this soulless lawyer to stuff it. And he knows most of the jury probably does, too._

 _His defense attorney's affected tones follow. He recites his lines after the verbal cues. The plaintiff's solid criminal record is disclosed. Photos of the wounds, the ligature marks, and the objects from the apartment the night are shown, and that one in particular stands out from the rest. That one otherwise innocent article lying crumpled on the floor is the fuel from which the vile, unthinkable conjectures are fired. The accusations that have been made for these long months. He had denied them all every time, cheeks flushed crimson in mortification as he refuted the words and the ridiculous half-dressed male dolls offered by the series of drama-eating therapists. He denies it again today. No, there is no proof that it happened, but based on the photographs alone, his attorney explains, the intention to do so was clearly there. They say he is but an innocent, and cannot truly understand what had happened to him. What he was lucky to escape. Gasps and shouts are elicited. The prosecutor's voice vehemently spits out objections. The courtroom has to be ordered quiet._

 _His plea of self-defense hardly needs to be spoken at all._

 _He allows a gleam of tears to moisten his lashes as he lowers his eyes. He can hear the decision already in the judge's voice as it orders the jury out to agree upon a verdict._

"Simpson?"

 _He rises when bidden, returns to his seat next to his attorney. Feels his mother's and father's outstretched hands on his shoulders. It hardly takes more than two minutes and the jury returns. The verdict is given, but the length of the sentence for the kidnapping and assault will be decided at a later date. For now, though, it's over. It's finally over._

 _He hasn't seen his attacker since that night three months ago, and has tried to get the man's face out of his mind ever since, if only to get to sleep, to little avail. When he closes his eyes he only sees that shocked expression, all the blood._

 _Now he looks up reflexively. He watches the bailiff approach with handcuffs and the sentenced rise to accept them. The sun lighting up the man's hair is overtaken by a cloud, and the room's light diffuses. The red still practically glows. It reminds him of how warm the blood felt on his hands._

 _He inadvertently meets those dark eyes. Sees something there he cannot name, and while the rest of the room seems to blur out of focus he knows his face must surely betray his discomfort._

 _And then Bob smiles at him._

 _It feels as though a gust from that December afternoon has somehow breached the glass and brick of that close room just to run a single skeletal finger down the entire length of his spine. The paralyzing fear from that night returns, but a small, familiar voice deep in his mind says it's a shame the knife hadn't done a better job. The job it had intended to do to him. He frowns and wards the thought away. The sincere, murderous intent behind that little voice, birthed that night in his mind, frightens him more than anything else._

 _No words are spoken; none need to be. There's just that unfaltering smile with its promise lurking just beneath the surface._ See you again _. And then Bob is ushered away and is gone._

"SIMPSON!"

Sucking in a great gasp of air, Bart lurched upward and immediately regretted opening his eyes when they met a bright light. He scrunched up his face in pain and threw an arm over them.

"Ugh what the hell?! Are you trying to blind me _and_ give me a heart attack?"

"Oh. Sorry man." The light disappeared as a phone clicked off. "You were making weird sounds and you woke me up. I thought you were, you know, cryin' or something."

Bart fell back to the floor against his thin pillow, still holding his arm up like a shield, and grimaced. That dream again. Damn it. He hadn't had it in months and of course he would dream it again while crashing at Nelson's.

"Tch. I'm not a girl. It was just a weird dream I guess. Probably from that nasty hooch you bought."

Nelson chuckled and settled back down on the sofa. "Hey, you pitch in more than two bucks next time and I'll get something better."

"Soon as Apu actually pays me decent money I'll let you know," Bart retorted and felt his stomach suddenly churn. "Ugh. I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Dude, you puke on my floor and your ass is dead."

Bart didn't reply, but managed to get himself onto unsteady feet and stagger the short distance to the bathroom. He quickly shut the door behind him and flicked on the light, wincing. Bending to turn on the sink tap he nearly toppled over, but steadied himself by gripping the edges of the counter. After a silent count to three he let go and splashed cold water over his face. The effect managed to help more than he thought it would, and he willed his stomach to calm. He knew he would feel much better if he just emptied out his guts, but he didn't want Nelson to hear that. The last time he'd thrown up after drinking had been humiliating enough. He'd earn a reputation as a bona-fide lightweight if he gave in now.

After a moment he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and absently realized he could do with a shave, but would do far better with some more sleep. His eyes already had deep shadows beneath them. He absently wondered what time it was.

After shutting off the water and weakly attempting to make some semblance of decency out of his mussed hair with his fingers, Bart returned to the living room. Nelson had his phone on again and was tapping at something as Bart all but flopped back down to the makeshift bed of two slightly musty blankets spread out on the floor.

"All right?" Nelson asked, not looking up.

"Yeah. False alarm."

"Good. So, er, what kind of weird was your dream? Like, horses in tutus dancing in the woods weird or making out with your sister weird?"

"What? Sick! I'm trying _not_ to puke, remember?" Bart turned on his side and pulled half his pillow over his head.

Nelson laughed and continued tapping. Bart's own phone suddenly chirped softly from where it lay face-down on the floor about a foot from his head. He reached out and grabbed it, squinted at the screen, saw that it was six in the morning and that Milhouse had sent him a message. No, several messages. Apparently he had been trying to get in touch with Bart for most of the night.

 _After you get off work wanna go see a movie?_

 _Already have plans?_

 _Well I guess I'll just see you later tonite_

 _Btw a package came in the mail for you_

 _Having fun?_

 _Where are you? Are you ok_

Bart jabbed out a clumsy reply, grateful for autocorrect this time.

 _Yeah fine drank too much crashed at Nelsons_

A reply came immediately.

 _Oh. Ok_

Bart could read the hurt in that blunt message. Even though Milhouse detested alcohol, the kid still managed to put on a pitiable act at no longer being invited out for any nighttime binges with the fun crowd. Despite one of Bart's stipulations in agreeing to Milhouse's suggestion that the two of them should save money and the potential headache of risking being roommates with strangers by just renting an apartment together was that Milhouse absolutely could not be too clingy, there were only so many ways to change a person's deeply ingrained habits. And Milhouse would always be borderline annoying in that respect, like a mother hen only vaguely subdued by its actual age and gender. Yet ever since that incident six years ago, Milhouse made it a point to openly worry about his friend whenever any cause for it arose. Most of his friends and acquaintances had done the same as well. Perfect strangers even sometimes did. He had been a morbid sort of celebrity about town for months following the incident as well as the trial, which had been delayed as a result of Sideshow Bob's hospitalization. And while Bart found all the attention touching in its own way for a time, he gradually did come to terms with the precise reason as to why that was, and it began to annoy him to the point of sheer resentment toward anyone who so much as cast a softened eye in his direction. He had been the object of a lunatic's murderous designs more than once, but aside from the first time an attempt on his life had been made, the pity and sympathy were nothing compared to what they had been this last time around. All because of that one awful, completely humiliating rumor, and nothing he said could completely dispel it. Fortunately, however, time did much to make most people forget. Or simply stop caring.

Now that both he and Milhouse were twenty years old, though, the continuing wellspring of worry in his life was getting more and more on Bart's nerves. Even his own mother had already eased off to more of a degree. He wasn't entirely sure he could continue living with Milhouse for much longer, and in fact had been toying with the possibility of moving out of Springfield altogether in the near future.

"Who's that?" Nelson asked.

"Nobody. Just Milhouse." Bart clicked off his phone and put it down.

"Ah. And how is the wife?"

"Shut up."

"I've said it before, Simpson, but I can't believe you're still friends with that weirdo. Even _after_ high school. Man..."

"Hey I'm still friends with _you_ , aren't I? Must be something wrong with my head."

"Ha. You got that right."

Bart snorted a laugh and realized he probably wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. The sun would be rising soon anyway.

As if on cue, Nelson asked, "Coffee?"

* * *

When Bart stepped off the bus and returned home, groggy and still fairly dizzy with a stomach fueled with caffeine and little else, he tossed his keys on the side table and realized the apartment was quiet and empty. Upon closer inspection, he discovered he'd dropped his key ring on a scribbled note. Of all the eccentric things Milhouse did, this old-fashioned one might have been the worst. _We all have cell phones for a reason, Milhouse_ , he thought. With a sigh, he swiped up the paper from off the heavily scuffed surface and skimmed it over.

 _Hey. At work. Let me know when you get back, ok? I got bored and made brownies last night. They're on the counter._

With an even deeper sigh and an eye roll, Bart crumpled the paper and tossed it behind the couch. Although, something chocolate didn't sound objectionable in the least.

He wandered further in toward the kitchen and saw a medium-sized cardboard box sitting on the small, cheap Formica table they'd picked up last year at a flea market and that currently served more as a dumping ground for random things (mostly Bart's growing I'll-get-to-it-later piles) than as a place to sit and eat. He'd already spaced Milhouse's text about receiving something in the mail. The problem was he hadn't ordered anything lately, and he had no clue as to what it could possibly be. He studied the postage label. There was no return address.

After retrieving a small paring knife from the drawer, he slid the blade carefully through the precisely applied tape that held the box closed. He set the knife on the table and slowly peeled the flaps up, bent them back. Then he simply stood there, trying to comprehend what he was looking at. And yet a part of him strongly suspected that what he saw was exactly what he imagined it to be. Only much filthier now. Soft, but blotched with harder edges. The familiar blue-green wave of his favorite childhood celebrity's hair. Something that had belonged to him a long, long time ago, now ruined beyond repair.

"What...the hell..."

He stood motionless for a long time, watching the object filling the box as if expecting it to move. Once he could finally bring himself to take control of his limbs again, he resolved to just reach out and take hold of the parcel. He quickly flipped the thing over before he could mentally talk himself out of it. The thing inside easily slipped out with a muted thud against the table, and in his shock Bart dropped the box to the floor.

His old towel that he had lost that night years ago lay crumpled and slowly uncurling before him. Whereas before it had been mostly bright white and blue it was now dullish and covered in old, dark bloodstains.

Bart just stared at the large, deep reddish-brown blotches marring Krusty's grinning faces and his nausea began to creep back. Only when he spotted the pristine white edge of a piece of paper poking out from within the folds did he mentally will himself to investigate further.

With thumb and forefinger, he carefully pulled the note out, thankful it was not bloodied as well. Unfolding it, he found he held a hand-written note in beautiful script with thick black ink on expensive-looking stationary. His hand trembled slightly as he read the words.

 _This hideous object managed to both save my life and serve as a wonderfully tangible memento of you for years since, but now I feel its return to its rightful owner only fair. Apologies for not having it cleaned._

 _Until next we meet._

 _~B T_

 _p.s. Do remind me to show you my scar..._

Only after reading the note five more times did Bart realize he'd been holding his breath. He dropped the paper and looked again at the horrible mass on the table. He'd have to move it. The idea of touching something crusted with blood six years old made his stomach flip. That it was Sideshow Bob's blood made it all the worse. He paused and considered. The man actually _kept_ this thing with him all this time. But how? Surely he couldn't have brought it in to prison with him? But there was no other explanation. Someone had to have pulled some strings to get it to Bob on the inside. The thought of it chilled Bart to his marrow. It was just so gruesome, so thoroughly sick and demented, even for Bob. But Bart could well imagine just how much the man loathed him by now. After the things beyond murder they'd accused him of trying to do to Bart. After the hell he had probably endured in prison this time as a result.

Swallowing, Bart convinced himself it was just a matter of retrieving the box, taking hold of the least offensive-looking folds of the towel and shoving the thing back inside. But the churning in his stomach increased to threatening levels just as he was about to touch it.

He turned away with closed eyes, bracing himself against the counter and willing himself not to throw up for the second time that day as his head swam.

What did this even mean? Sideshow Bob couldn't possibly be out of prison before his twenty-year sentence was even half up. They'd assured Bart that the chance of parole this time would be slim to none, and that if Bob somehow did get a hearing Bart would be the first to know about it. Because if anyone could contest the man's parole hearing, it was unquestionably Bart Simpson. Then again, that had been many years ago.

 _Until next we meet..._

Bob had known exactly where to send the package, and this place was listed in Milhouse's name. No. This was just an empty threat. It had to be. Bob was probably just bored and resentful as usual and had simply paid someone to find out where Bart was living so he could set up this package to scare him. But even that seemed ridiculous. Bart thought it might be a good idea to get in touch with the police station, if nothing else than to find out whether or not Bob was still locked away. Right then what he wanted more than anything, however, was to not be alone with that thing in his apartment.

He fumbled for his cell in his back pocket and speed-dialed Milhouse. As the line rang he left the kitchen, taking care not to look in table's direction as he went.

* * *

Two weeks passed with nothing unusual occurring and no further correspondences from Bob. Bart had managed to phone the prison to confirm that yes, Bob really was still imprisoned. That information alone eased a terrific weight from his mind, but couldn't alleviate it altogether. He'd decided not to mention the gruesome mail he had received to the police after all, and made Milhouse agree to do the same, although that last feat took a lot of persuasion. After he had had some time to consider it, Bart felt that the last thing he'd wanted was more of that special brand of embarrassing pity and concern he had received in abundance when he was younger. Plus, the more he thought about it, the more pathetic it seemed that even after all this time he was still the target of a failed criminal's single-minded obsession. Throughout his childhood he'd managed to outsmart and outmaneuver Bob every time the two came into conflict. And, after all, he was an adult now, and felt he should be capable of taking care of himself. By himself. Even Milhouse had encouraged this sentiment, and that had actually managed to make Bart feel better. And so the pair of them swore never to speak about the incident to anyone unless it was somehow absolutely necessary.

As for the parcel, Milhouse suggested that they burn it. Bart had agreed, and they stuffed it, box and all, into an empty metal trash bin out behind the apartment complex the following night. But just as Bart was about to drop the lit match into the can, a little voice piped up in his mind to warn him that it was a bad idea. As to why that was, he honestly had no clue, but the nagging sensation was intense. Bob had thought of the thing as a memento. Maybe he should do the same. So, to Milhouse's confused (and not mildly repulsed) dismay, Bart had retrieved the box, resealed it, and stuffed it into the back of his closet under a pile of dirty t-shirts.

Now it was Tuesday evening, and Bart was working his usual late shift at the Kwik-E-Mart. As most weeknights went, business was relatively slow, and he was able to slack off with his phone games and unlimited cups of coffee throughout the night. He'd gone through a stint of smoking for a few years, but quickly realized just how large a portion of his already limited income it had eaten up and eventually, reluctantly, abandoned the habit. Only now he had acquired an intense caffeine addiction. Fortunately for him (and his wallet), Apu didn't dock for the cheap swill they served on the convenience store's burners.

After a good half hour's lull in business, Bart had just made it to a tricky boss battle when the electronic bell above the sliding doors chimed. He gave a very brief glance of acknowledgment to the middle-aged man who entered and cursed under his breath for the precious seconds lost before he concentrated back on his game. A moment later, the man reappeared from the coolers in the back of the store and plunked a 40-ounce Duff down on the counter.

"Pack of Laramie Bolds too, when you can get to it, kid."

Bart looked up and immediately noticed the large, crude, blue anchor tattoo on the man's forearm. Clearly a prison job. Then he briefly glanced into the lined face of a stern, dark-haired man with the beginnings of silver at the temples. That face did not look like it was usually in the best of moods even at the best of times.

Bart set his phone aside on the counter and stood up from his seat on the store stepstool to retrieve the cigarettes from the display behind him. When he heard the telltale "You're Dead" jingle from his phone he inwardly groaned at his wasted efforts.

"Heh," the man grunted and gestured with his chin at the phone once Bart turned back to face him. "Looks like you bit it there."

Bart shrugged. "Meh. I've got all night."

"Maybe you do. Then again, maybe you don't."

Bart looked closely the man now. He'd learned long ago to mostly ignore the crazy things the expected drunks typically said and did in the small hours, but this man did not look the least bit inebriated. And Bart couldn't recall ever seeing him before in his life. Knowing all that Apu had trained him about potential robbers and general weirdos to look out for, Bart put up his guard. No more chitchat, but remain outwardly pleasant.

"That'll be nine and ten cents please," Bart stated.

Looking Bart in the eye, the man offered a half-smile that revealed teeth stained from years of heavy smoking. It managed no little unnerving effect if only for the obvious simultaneous softening of the man's hard eyes. After a full five seconds of this, Bart began to slowly reach for the silent alarm button under the counter.

"Here, kid," the man finally said, and slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter, pocketing his cigarettes in the front of his shirt and tucking the bottle under his left armpit. "You keep the change." He made a lazy one-fingered salute with his free hand and left the store, the smile still plastered on his lips even as he dissolved into the darkness beyond the building's fluorescent outdoor lights.

Bart watched him go, his every muscle tense. Only when he was sure the man was gone did he punch at the register and pluck up the twenty. When a tightly folded square of notepaper fluttered down from underneath the bill he practically yelped in surprise. He quickly smashed the money into its slot and pocketed the change before grabbing up the note, furiously wondering what the hell a creep like that could have possibly left for him. Briefly he considered locking the door and turning over the OPEN sign before he read it, but decided he might be acting a little too paranoid for all that. He sat down on the stepstool again, out of the windows' line of sight.

As soon as he had the paper opened, he recognized that neat handwriting again. His heart rate quickened as he read.

 _Enjoying the job? It does seem a bit beneath those mental talents you've always suppressed and disguised from everyone with admirable efficiency, if you don't mind my saying. Well, best to save up in order to move out and away from, yes? Even lending a generously slight credence to that possibility, you wouldn't really be going anywhere, would you? You can always run, but hiding is the trickier part._

He could feel his mouth go dry as he read it over once more. A terrible prickling sensation crawled over his skin and he looked up, glancing at the door, into the aisles he could see, and even behind him. It felt as though he was being watched.

Bart practically leapt off the stool and strode to the end of the counter. He made a manic sweep of every aisle, checked every corner, but not a soul was around. The sliding doors pinged open for him as he stepped out into the night. Only the buzzing of the lights overhead and the faint whisk of traffic could be heard in the dark stillness.

"Where are you hiding, you bastard?" He didn't quite yell, but he'd called out loudly enough that he immediately felt foolish. Sideshow Bob was in jail; he couldn't have been anywhere near the store. Although it was now apparent that the man had friends on the outside to do his favors, it still didn't account for what was written in the note. It was as if he had known about Bart's recent misgivings about his living arrangements. Something he hadn't yet confided to _anyone_.

One thing was suddenly very clear. He was being observed on Bob's orders. Yet not knowing whom to look out for crippled any chance he might have had to put a stop to it. Then an even more chilling thought occurred to him: just how long had this been going on? For all Bart knew, they might have been watching him grow up over the years, never making themselves known. The very notion made him feel sick and violated.

As Bart reentered the store, he wondered that if such a scenario were the case, then what had suddenly prompted what was essentially permission for him to know about that surveillance. There had to be a reason, and Bart had a very good idea as to what that reason was. One way or another, Bob was not going to remain in prison for much longer. And he would be coming for Bart.

That familiar little voice, born so long ago from a marriage of pure terror and primal survival instinct, fostered into a strange sort of companion over the years in lieu of what could have easily been a fractured mind, responded. _Not unless I get to you first._

The thought did not even surprise Bart. He recovered the note from where he had dropped it on the counter and crushed it in his fist before tossing it into the trash. A smile formed on his lips as he picked up his phone and resumed his game.


End file.
